


A Long Time, Indeed

by The_RedQueen_Supremacy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Game of Thrones References, Game of Thrones spoilers, Game of Thrones-esque, Inspired by Game of Thrones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-15 20:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_RedQueen_Supremacy/pseuds/The_RedQueen_Supremacy
Summary: Taking place after GoT Suicide Squad returns from above the Wall, Jon, Gendry, and Sandor come to Winterfell. This is basically a fanfic of a Jon/Arya and Gendry/Arya reunion that will explore the Gendry/Jon bromance and a painfully slow burn Gendrya romance. Multiple chapters and not exactly sure how long this one is gonna be. Bear with me.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter is kind of short and messy, but I honestly didn't know how to start this off. Other chapters will be longer, promise.

“Touch one more piece of dragon glass and it won’t just be your face that is permanently fucked up,” Jon growled at the Hound, eyeing him as he tossed a chunk of it back onto the wagon that he had been examining a moment ago. 

The Hound grunted, clearly irritated at the King of the North. Despite their combating against the White Walkers just weeks ago, it was clear that Jon did not trust him still; he was weary of his motivations and purpose of coming back to Winterfell with them, rather than continuing south with the walker they had captured north of the Wall. 

The battle would have been lost if it weren’t for Daenerys flying north with Rhaegal, burning white walkers as they flooded in to attack. Although she was able to fend them off, she could only keep them at bay as they entered under the Wall to safety, and not everyone made it back. Both Tormund and Thoros died in battle, attempting to seize a walker into the cage they had created to bring one down to King’s Landing. Thoros was lucky, having been cut cleanly by a sword through the heart. Tormund, on the other hand, had somehow become infected. Just as the group had turned around to head towards the Wall, fighting off White Walkers as they attacked, Tormund, eyes mad and icy, ran directly towards Gendry. 

The bastard still remembered the loss of humanity in his eyes as he growled like an animal, tearing at him; the way Tormund got up after Gendry smashed his chest in with his hammer. The wildling did not fall until Gendry was on his back in the icy snow, jamming a dragon glass dagger into his heart. 

Was it not for Daenerys stepping in, they all would have died. 

“You’re more of a pain in my ass than your sister,” Sandor muttered at Jon, clearly in a piss poor mood, as usual. 

Jon blinked, arching an eye brow at the man. “I would advise you not speak about Lady Stark in front of her brother in that tone, let alone in front of her when back at Winterfell,” he warned. 

The Hound laughed, but there was no cheer behind it. “Lady Stark, is it?” He shook his head, knowing damn well Jon was thinking of Sansa and not Arya. “I’d be damn well shocked if Arya ever let anyone call her a fucking Lady,” he retorted, taking pleasure in seeing Jon’s face contort with surprise and anger. 

Gendry straightened up in his saddle at the mention of Arya. “How do you know my youngest sister so well?” Jon demanded, kicking his horse to speed up, blocking Sandor’s from continuing. Gendry, who was behind them, halted as they did, giving them distance, yet listening intently. 

Sandor shrugged, “I found her in a pub after she ran from the Brotherhood,” he explained, nodding his head towards Beric. “She’s one stubborn bitch and an even larger pain in my ass. Wouldn’t even kill me with that toothpick she calls a sword while I was on the brink of death after protecting her from a woman knight.” He grumbled, “Not even after being on her fucking list.” 

Surprise was clearly etched on Jon’s face, “You protected Arya?” 

He chuckled darkly, “Don’t get me wrong - I fully intended on selling her to the Lannister’s for a bit, but then I remembered how much I fucking hated them and changed my mind. That was years ago since I last saw her.” 

“Hopefully she still doesn’t have an opinion on whether or not you’re alive once we reach Winterfell,” Jon replied, smirking slightly. Despite his seemingly calm demeanor, the King of the North was still processing this information about his youngest and favorite sister. What list was he talking about? Why did the Hound fight, who he assumed was Brienne of Tarth, to protect Arya? How long had she been completely alone? Where had she traveled to all these years? 

Gendry’s heart stopped at Jon’s words. Arya was alive? After all this time? Before he opened his mouth, not quite sure what to say, Sandor said, “She’s alive? At Winterfell?” Clearly he, too, believed her dead.

“Indeed she is,” Jon said, smiling fondly. The love for his sister was clear as day as Gendry watched him. He remembered that same look in Arya’s eyes when she spoke of her bastard brother. Jealousy flowed through Gendry and sat uneasily in his throat. He couldn’t imagine how she would react to finding him alive. He had abandoned her – the closest thing to family he had ever had – when she needed him the most. After she had pleaded for him to stay. 

As they exited the woods, Winterfell was a stark black stone castle against the snow and white sky. Jon’s horse picked up speed ever so slightly as his home came into view. Gendry did not move to catch up and fell back with the wagons, his palms sweaty despite the cold wind biting his cheeks. 

Gendry didn’t know what to do. How to prepare for this. To see her. After all this time. Would she even remember him? He was still a bastard. Of a Baratheon, but a bastard nonetheless. Maybe she had forgotten about him. Or maybe she hated him, never wishing to see his face again. 

He didn’t know which one was worse.


	2. A Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya reunite after six years apart

Home again, at last. Jon had waited for this moment for so long. Not to be back at Winterfell, necessarily, but to see Arya again. Alive. Well. A hope he had long ago let go of.

As the gates of Winterfell opened, Sansa stood front and center, a small group of men behind her, waiting to assist those needing to unpack wagons and send dragon glass to the smithy. Arya was not in sight. 

Sansa walked up to her bastard brother, nodding a polite hello. “How were things while I was gone?” He asked. 

She pursed her lips. “They were vocal on their dissatisfaction of you deciding to leave,” Sansa replied honestly. “They began to doubt your leadership.” 

Jon expected this. “Well then, let’s hope that dragon glass and an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen will satisfy them for a little while.” 

“She agreed to fight with you?” Sansa didn’t try to hide her surprise. 

“It’s complicated,” Jon began. “She demands I bend the knee, though we have enough common enemies that she may be willing to overlook it until we defeat the White Walkers.” Complications. Politics. Dangerous bonds that are easily shattered. He was in no mood to discuss these issues and it was too intricate to explain over small-talk. “Where is she?” He asked suddenly. 

Something flickered in Sansa’s eyes, but it was gone before he could identify the emotion. Irritation, he assumed. She always seemed to be dissatisfied with him. Some things never change. “Near the practice and target range.” A smile twitched at her lips. “Where else?” 

 

*

 

Jon was stopped dead in his tracks, watching her as she fought, or rather danced, around Brienne as they sparred. The frustration the female knight had at not being able to catch her quick movements and the anger that stirred in Arya for not having the strength Brienne did to make a hard blow. Their completely opposite fighting techniques, strengths, and weaknesses were fascinating to watch. 

Arya, in a moment of weakness, was thrown on her back as Brienne swung Oath Keeper down on Needle. However, she was able to roll away, springing up a moment later to continue the fight. Jon smiled softly. Still stubborn as always, he thought. However, he was not naïve to think she was the same little girl he grew up playing and training with. There was a danger in her eyes. Something even sharper and lethal than her movements or her small Needle that she had obviously outgrown. Arya was still small, but she had an air of adulthood and maturity about her that would make someone second guess her age despite her round face and small stature. 

Suddenly, Brienne attacked her with full force after Arya had muttered something to her, clearly attempting to antagonize her. The small Stark girl saw her movements coming and stepped side-face, arching backwards to escape the blow of the large sword. As Brienne regained her balance, Arya rolled, appearing behind her. The tip of Needle was at Brienne’s jugular in a split second. A move that would have had her left bleeding out if she had gone through with the attack. Rather than storming off, Brienne smiled. Both women were panting from the fight. “I suppose losing once isn’t a poor streak,” She responded as Arya hooked Needle in her leather belt. 

Arya arched an eyebrow as she smiled, “Once, hm?” She challenged. Brienne chuckled, shaking her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the King. As she bowed at the waist in greeting, Arya looked up and stopped. 

The smile faded from her face, her lips parting in surprise. Not at his arrival, no. She knew he was coming from the raven that sent word on their success north of the Wall.

It was actually seeing him. Here. Flesh and blood in front of her. Her eyes never left his as he walked down the steps towards her. He stopped at the bottom, clearly just as mentally paralyzed as she. He had so much to say. So much to apologize for. He felt as if he had failed her, somehow. Finally, he spoke. “Arya -” He was silenced with a bone crushing hug, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, legs dangling as she had jumped to reach his height. His arms were instantly around her small waist, surprised to feel hard muscle as he pulled her close. 

As she let go, he was caught off guard at the tears in her eyes. He had no clue what to say when there was so much to discuss. “I think you’ve outgrown Needle,” was what he went with, motioning to the tiny sword on her waist. 

She laughed softly, glancing down at her beloved present. “It’s skinny like me.” She replied fondly, remembering his comment when he had given it to her years ago. 

He shook his head. “Not nearly as much so now. You’ve grown well.” He paused. “Your fighting has certainly gotten better.” 

Arya smiled wider at that, standing up straighter at the compliment. “Your hair is longer than mine,” she teased. 

“Aye, I reckon I pull it off better than you,” he replied easily. 

“It’s good to see you, Jon. More than good.” 

As he smiled, Arya noticed tiny wrinkles crease his eyes. She wanted to ask what he had done these past years. What he’s seen. She wanted to tell him everything. About the Brotherhood. The Hound. Braavos. Possibly demand Little Finger’s head on a stick. 

“What about me? Isn’t it good to see me?” Sandor shouted from the top of the steps, smiling, though there was no happiness behind it. 

Arya froze for a moment. “How are you not rotting on some mountainside right now?!” She demanded. 

“The gods love me,” He replied, walking off with a very choice finger raised in the air behind him. 

“Seems like we have much catching up to do.” Jon replied, nodding towards where the Hound had gone off to. 

Arya nodded slowly, “It seems we do, King of the North.” 

He smiled at that, knowing her pointed comments were harmless. He missed that. The open jabs and sarcasm that simply equated to affection and love. Sansa was too hard. Jon couldn’t reach out to her in a way that made them both comfortable. He never knew what to say, how to confide in her, fully trust her. They never had a strong relationship before, but he had hoped that the distance, the loss of brothers and parents would change that. Unite them and break that barrier, somehow. With Arya it was always so easy. But they understood each other in a way their siblings did not. They were both outcasts. A title she had but did not want. A title he did not have and kept him from his own siblings loving him fully. Titles that held them back brought them together. 

“I want to show you something,” Jon began, turning towards the work quarters. Arya followed, catching up to fall into step next to him. As they walked, carts of black crystal were piled on top of each other, pressed against walls and stacked in clusters in the middle of the yards. It was beautiful, dark matter. “Dragon glass,” He explained as he stopped in front of a cart, picking up a hunk of the stone and handing it to Arya. “It can be molded into weapons. Something about it…” He struggled, not sure how to explain, furrowing his brows as he paused, “It weakens White Walkers. Destroys them in a way that normal weapons cannot.”

Arya looked from her brother to the dragon glass, turning it over in her hands. It was cool and hard. Its texture, though smooth yet rough where it was cracked, had a foreign identity that made it completely its own. “It’s beautiful.” 

“I want you fitted for a new sword,” he explained, gesturing to Needle. “You need something that can protect you from White Walkers when they come. I won’t have you fighting against them with only a stick to protect you.” 

“It’s done well for me in the past,” She began, then stopped as she processed his words. “You’re allowing me to fight in the war?” Utter surprise was etched across her face.

Jon smiled softly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m not going to let you in the front lines, but I’d be a fool to leave you unprotected if – or when – the time comes that you need to defend yourself against them. The entire world is waging war, right now. And I’ve seen you fight. You’re better than most of my men.” Arya could tell he was being genuine in his sentiments. “Best have you armed with weapons that will give you the best protection possible.”

Emotions that Arya had not felt in years rushed to the surface. Love. Compassion. Understanding. Respect. Jon was her weakness. Why she couldn’t leave Arya Stark behind to become no one. He was the knot that kept her humanity from being cut from her. “Thank you, Jon.” And she knew. Knew he understood what she meant with that. All that she was feeling in this moment. He pulled her in for a hug, his chin resting on her head. Arya wrapped an arm around him, holding the piece of dragon glass between them as they embraced. 

Jon couldn’t put into words how he was feeling. Relief, but also, he realized, terror as well. Now, with the knowledge that Arya was alive, he had another person to lose. Another person to protect. He had thought he lost her once before and he could not lose her again. Not when he finally had her back, years later. 

When Jon pulled away, he kept an arm on her shoulder, keeping her close. “Tomorrow, I want you to come down to the smithy and request weapons for fitting that match your style. At least one sword and one dagger. Something stronger and thicker than Needle. You’ll need the extra weight and strength in your weapons.” Arya nodded, swallowing thickly. She hated the smithy. Hated the inevitable memories it surfaced. Memories of a certain, stupid bull. “Tomorrow, have dinner with me. I have far too many things to check on tonight, but we’re not even close to finishing our business here.” 

His smile and kind eyes made Arya laugh softly. Commands coming from him were something she’d have to get used to. “Of course. I will see you tomorrow evening.” 

 

As they parted ways, Gendry emerged from the shadows, glancing at Jon before watching Arya disappear around the corner. He hadn’t realized his jaw was clenched until he released it, feeling the ache in his teeth as he did so. He had been organizing the boxes to take dragon glass to the smithy when he heard her voice and stopped, paralyzed at seeing the ghost of a child he once knew years ago. 

But she was no longer a child. Still small; couldn’t have grown more than a few inches the last time he saw her. Yet her hair was longer and she was dressed in Northern clothing. Boyish fighting gear that wasn’t as unflattering as it was years ago when she had more of a boys figure.

Gendry did not know what to do. Should he go after her? No. Don’t be stupid, he chided to himself. Leave her be. As Jon had said, she would be at the smithy soon enough. Let her find him. 

A worker bumped into him, grunting as he passed with a large haul of dragon glass. It was enough to shake him from his thoughts. Following suit, he hefted another box off the ground and moved it to his workplace. 

At least he had enough work to do to distract him for a little while.


	3. A Bastard and a Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Arya grows more skeptical about Little Finger and the information she has gained about Sansa's allegiances, she gains information directly from the source. Sword fittings at the smithy for her dragon glass weapons do not go as planned.

It was still foreign to wake up in her chambers at Winterfell. Every morning, as she would roll onto her side and slip out of bed, it would take her a moment to realize where she was – that it hadn’t been a long, blissful dream and that she was truly back home. 

Home… was it really? Arya was a completely different person, now. Had hardened and closed herself off to all but a select few. There was a darkness in her that the war had released in the deepest part of her. The last time she had been at Winterfell, she had just gotten Needle and it felt awkward in her hands. Now it was just an extension of her arm. A part of her as she fought. She killed without hesitation and sought out trouble. She felt the walls of her home watch her, as if they could sense that she was no longer the little girl who was raised in Winterfell. 

However, Arya also knew that some of these walls had eyes and ears, watching her every move and reporting back to a dear family friend, Little Finger. 

Not knowing what he was up to, his intentions, and his entire relationship with the Stark family, especially Sansa, drove Arya mad. The note that Sansa had written to Robb years ago after Ned’s death enraged her. Was there any humanity left in that pretty little head of hers? Arya wondered. Or was she entirely focused on power and control? Nice things and selfish thoughts?

Once Arya was dressed in thick, tight riding slacks and wrapped in heavy fighting leathers to protect against the cold winter air, she headed down the hallway, Needle tucked in her belt and two daggers strapped around her left thigh. Brienne wanted to teach her how to fight on horseback – an entirely different skillset that could one day come in handy.

Before she met with Brienne, however, she had some unfinished business to attend to. 

Not bothering to knock as she normally would have at this specific door, Arya pushed open to Sansa’s bedchambers. She was sitting at her vanity, adjusting the chain necklace looped around her throat. Her hair was pulled back at the top, braided intricately as the rest was undone, falling against her back. Sansa met Arya with an irritated look from the mirror, getting up only a moment later. “Good morning,” she greeted stiffly, walking over to the small table in the corner of her room. On top of it sat glass of wine and an assortment of breakfast items. “Danish?” She offered. 

“No,” Arya replied, closing the door behind her. “No thank you.” She watched closely as Sansa glanced at the food, then walked slowly towards the fireplace. Embers still crackled from the night’s fire. “I wanted to see how you were fairing now that Jon is back.” The tone in her voice clearly intended concern for Jon’s title rather than Sansa’s rough relationship with her half-brother.

Sansa pursed her lips angrily. “I know we’ve never gotten along very well in the past,” Lady Stark began. Arya scoffed quietly, which only caused a flare in Sansa’s frustration with her little sister. “But I do not understand how you could think me a monster after all this time.” She took a few steps towards Arya, straightening up to her full height. “I may not get along as well as you and Jon, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect or care about him. We cannot expect to survive if the Stark’s are waging war against each other while the rest of the world is preparing to attack us as well.” Arya, stone faced, took note on how she included Jon under the Stark name, despite him still being illegitimate. “If you’ve come here only to pick a fight, I suggest you leave,” Sansa concluded. “I’m not in the mood to bicker when there are greater issues to tend to.” 

The youngest Stark hesitated, weighing her options. “You’ve never called him a Stark, before.” She murmured, tilting her head to the side ever so slightly. 

“What?” Sansa asked tiredly. 

“Jon,” Arya clarified. “You’ve never associated him with us before – thought you were better than him because he was a bastard. Father’s one mistake. You hated him like mother did.”

“You of all people should understand that people have the ability to change, Arya. For better. For worse.” 

She ignored the pointed comment as she said, “So you care about the family?” There was no hope in Arya’s voice, just inquiry. Curiosity, as if she were asking her older sister if she had a taste for licorice candy. 

Sansa’s face contorted with offense. “Of course I do. I always have.” She paused. “Don’t act as if you were the only one who lost a mother, two brothers. I saw father’s head get cut off and I couldn’t do anything about it. Don’t disregard me because you haven’t a clue what I have gone through while we were apart.” Her head shook slightly. “Not all of us were lucky enough to escape King’s Landing the second it fell to shit.” Realizing how nasty her tone had gotten, Sansa softly brushed out her skirts, regaining her composure. “Now please, leave,” She commanded. 

Arya bent her knees slightly in a short bow. “My Lady,” She murmured before turning on her heals and exiting the room. 

Her older sister had given her the exact response she needed to decipher the scroll she had found in Little Finger’s chambers. Whether it was forged or Sansa had truly written the note taking the Lannister’s side, it was clear that she did not mean what she had wrote. Arya wasn’t stupid enough to think Little Finger wouldn’t be above trying to trick her. It was almost too easy to gain that information and seek out the scroll that he had been trying so hard to hide. She had heard stories about his spies; his tricks. But the hurt in Sansa’s eyes, the pain of reliving hard memories in her head – it was clear that she had no allegiance with the Lannister’s. At least, not anymore. 

 

The doors to the smithy were heavy as Arya pulled them open, the winds pushing against them as she slipped inside. It was best to get fitted as soon as she could, knowing she’d forget if she put it off for a later time. And, to be quite honest, she was excited to see what a sword made of dragon glass would look like. 

The familiar scent of smoke and steel filled her nose. Dirt and sweat accompanied it. The hut was warm. Almost uncomfortably so, with all the layers she was wearing for her riding exercise later. Arya was silent for a moment, examining the crates of untouched dragon glass glinting in the firelight. A few weapons were already molded and hanging on the wall, ready to be named and swung at White Walkers. 

They were beautiful weapons. Black, cleanly cut blades with silver steel handlings. Oxidized detailing, though simple, made the silver contrast magnificently against the black glass and engravings. The work was familiar, almost. Not the normal artwork of a Northern smith, but it sparked a memory that Arya could not pinpoint. That was, until she continued down the short line of weapons and halted, suddenly. A large Warhammer, built for a man who wielded a great deal of strength and power in his fighting, hung from the wall. It, too, was made of dragon glass. Silver steel wrapped around a large hunk of the matter. One side flat and blunt, good for smashing a skull in, where the other side came to a sharp point, mostly for balancing purposes, yet Arya knew that it would not fare well for the opposing side to get hit with that, either. 

What forced Arya to stop, though, was the detailing on the side of the weapon. The head of a stag, its antlers powerful and as it ran along the side of the dragon glass, was a clear emblem of the Baratheon house. 

She whirled around, turning to where the anvil was. The sounds of drop forging, she had realized, halted. 

A ghost of a bull boy she had known stood before her, though he wasn’t an exact imitation from her memory. He was a few inches taller, somehow. More defined – the body of a warrior. His hair was cropped short, no longer falling messily in front of his bright blue eyes – eyes that were staring right at her, slightly widened and unmoving, like a stag catching sight of the hunter right before they release the arrow to take it down. 

“Gendry?” Arya whispered, more to herself than anyone else. Not, certainly, to a friend she had thought was dead many years ago. 

He bowed his head slightly. “M’lady,” He responded. 

Before Gendry could clench his abdomen to protect from her fist swinging at his stomach, he felt the impact. She was surprisingly strong, he realized as he curled over, clutching his stomach. “That’s for leaving me,” She growled. He felt a sting on his cheek, blood rushing to where Arya had slapped him. “That’s for calling me a Lady.” Her fist balled up again, arching back to swing, “And this is-” Before she could make contact, his hand was wrapped around her taught knuckles, stopping the attack. 

Arya huffed, quickly bringing her knee up to make contact between his legs. Seeing her movements, he twisted his foot around her ankle, making her lose her balance and fall to the floor. However, she didn’t let go, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and pulling him down with her. She wriggled her fist out of his grasp quickly, punching him in the jaw, though it wasn’t nearly as powerful as she wished, what with the weight of his body giving her little room to gain momentum behind her attacks. 

Gendry grunted in frustration, pinning her dominate hand to the ground. Not to get deterred, Arya tried to wriggle her legs up to kick him off her, yet he was one step ahead, having wrapped her legs behind a knee, cinching them tightly together. “Let go of me,” She spat in frustration, still trying to escape his tight grip. 

“Are you going to punch me again?” He asked, arching an eyebrow. He moved quickly to trap both of her wrists in one of his hands, making sure she had no way to attack him. At least for the moment. 

Arya looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course,” She responded plainly. 

He couldn’t help himself when he chuckled, shaking his head. “Still just as stubborn, I see.” 

“Still just as stupid,” Arya countered. 

“I’ve hardly proven to still be stupid in the short, wonderful interaction we’ve had so far.” The sarcasm in his voice was far too familiar. It was almost painful, for Arya. Having Jon back was overwhelming, but for Gendry to be back – hell, alive – and here right now was a sensory overload. “Besides, don’t you think three hits is enough to call it even?” 

“It’s certainly not,” She began. “You abandoned me. That deserves endless hits.” 

Gendry smirked, glancing around the forge for a moment before looking back down at her. “Reckon not much has changed since we last saw each other. Still fighting in the smithy. Though, this time I actually have the upper hand,” He teased. 

Arya rolled her eyes. “Get off me,” She barked. When he hesitated she huffed an impatient sigh. “I’m not going to hit you,” She promised. After a short consideration, he released her, standing up to brush off the dirt from his slacks. “What happened? After you left?”

Wincing internally at her reminder of their hard separation, he explained what had happened. How Melisandre had nearly killed him trying to please her gods. How Davos saved him, giving him a small boat to row across the sea, heading back to Flea Bottom. He told her about Davos coming back to retrieve him, leading him to her brother and fighting the White Walkers above the wall. 

“Does he know you know me?” Arya asked suddenly. 

He hesitated. “No,” he replied after a moment. 

“Why not?”

A shrug. “I don’t know.” But he did. It just wasn’t something he wanted to admit aloud. “Where have you been? After all this time?” 

“Everywhere,” She responded vaguely. 

“That’s descriptive,” Gendry teased. 

“You know, I hate to say it, but you’re a huge arse,” Arya said suddenly, changing the subject. 

He raised an eye brow at her. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Look at you – smithing for the King of the North. My brother.” She explained. “I recall offering you a quite similar opportunity years ago, just with a different brother. It could have saved quite the trouble. Probably a few less near-death experiences. Loads of bitterness and resentment to get past.”

Gendry huffed a laugh through his nose, the corners of his mouth upturned. “I suppose so. But it’s not as if we could have predicted this to happen,” He countered. 

“No, I suppose not.” She tilted her head ever so slightly to the side, watching him. How things have changed. She didn’t know how they would interact after all this time. What has he done in the years they were gone? Gods know she’s done things he would more than likely be appalled by. Even the fucking Hound got pissed off at her violent solutions when they were traveling together. “It’s been a long time, Waters.” 

He nodded his head slowly, watching her with the same curiosity as she did to him, “A long time, indeed.” 

A moment later two soldiers burst through the doors, carrying heavy crates of dragon glass. Another smith followed behind them, ready for work. The older man walked up to Gendry, blabbering on about dragon glass and options for the weapons they were creating. 

Arya was about to slip out of the forge when Gendry called after her, “Lady Stark.” She turned around, trying her best not to kick him between the legs for the title. She noticed the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile for just a split second, his eyes sparking with interest knowing that she couldn’t do much with others in the forge – there would be too many questions. “Is there anything you need?”

She straightened up, glancing at the other smith as he looked at her. “I need fitting for new weapons.”

The older smith nodded. “I can fit you right now,” He offered. 

The youngest Stark shook her head. “I have training I am already late for.” 

“Then this evening?” The old man offered. 

“I have dinner with Jon.”

Before the Northern man could respond, Gendry interrupted. “I could help you after,” He suggested, glancing for a moment at the smith. “I’ll be on shift just as you go home for the evening. I don’t mind working late.” He looked back at Arya for an answer. 

There was a pregnant pause as she considered. “Very well, then.” Arya turned on her heals to leave. 

Both smiths nodded their heads in a respectful bow. “My Lady,” They both called after her. 

As Arya saddled her horse to find Brienne, she shook her head ever so slightly, trying to clear her muddled thoughts, as to have a controlled mind during practice. She kicked her horse, galloping towards the gods woods, where the two women were meeting, today.

Damn this bull.


	4. A Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has dinner with Jon, then heads to the smithy to get sized for her new weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many feels about the season finale. All I'll say for fear of spoiling you all is that I'm 100% pissed that the only two characters who thought to mention Arya were the Hound and Brienne. Though, at this point I'm happy they mentioned her at all at this point.

Arya’s thighs ached as she trudged into her bedchambers. She was exhausted from today’s training, having spent countless hours on saddleback, maneuvering in ways her body wasn’t quite accustom to. 

Brienne had pushed her to her limits, forcing Arya to stand up on her stirrups, learning how to balance with her backside completely off the saddle, yet still in control of her horse and able to swing a sword with enough force behind her attacks to do serious damage. Although Arya had learned a great deal and worked her muscles raw, she still felt dissatisfied at the end of her training. On multiple occasions she had become distracted by consuming thoughts of dark haired men. One of them she was desperately trying to connect with again after years of separation, the other being a boy-turned-man she was considering whether or not to slice up into tiny bits for showing up here after abandoning her years ago. 

As the hot water steamed in the drawn bath in front of her, Arya ground her teeth together. She felt odd that Jon didn’t know Arya had a long history with Gendry. Why should she feel compelled to keep it a secret from him? It isn’t as if she had anything to hide from him and it may very well help strengthen the trust between the two men – though she had no idea how well her brother and the bull knew each other. There was a chance that Jon didn’t know Gendry very well at all. So, then should she bother bringing him up at all at dinner?

A hiss escaped through her teeth once she stepped into the bath. The water was scalding against her frozen skin. Despite her moving constantly for the past few hours, the bitter wind and dry air froze her to the core. Sweat that accumulated at her hairline immediately froze, plastering her hair to her forehead and the nape of her neck. Arya had experienced cold fronts in Winterfell before, but she was beginning to understand why the wet-nurses had told such chilling stories about the long winters to her as a child; the cold’s unforgiving nature was unexplainable to those who had never experienced anything but the warm summers – even in the cold North. 

The bath water was silky smooth, cloudy with soaps and essential oils that soothed her dry skin. The room smelled of lavender, a scent that reminded Arya of her mother, Catelyn. She shook her scatter brained head, lathering soap in a cloth to wash her dirty skin. Memories that surfaced about her family were always difficult, especially if it was about those she didn’t particularly get along with. 

Arya’s relationship with her female family members was complicated from the very moment she began showing unlady-like tendencies. Catelyn worried about her, she knew, but resentment brewed deeply inside Arya, simmering under her skin for years because her mother held her back from becoming the woman – not lady – she wanted to be. Arya’s feelings towards Sansa were the same, though the eldest daughter’s distain towards her came from judgement more than anything, especially when they were young girls.

Those pent up, negative emotions towards Catelyn and Sansa only frustrated and angered Arya. She had wanted to change those relationships – wished that she hadn’t left her mother on such uncertain grounds before her inevitable death. Now that Arya was back at Winterfell with her family, she wanted to reestablish her relationship with Sansa. It was difficult, though, with a dark snake latched to her side.

That was for another time, though. Arya couldn’t be distracted by implications created by Sansa or her relationship with Little Finger while she dressed for dinner with Jon. It was going to be an intimate affair, so she didn’t feel it was necessary to arm herself with the hidden daggers she normally carried. Instead, all she slipped inside her clothes was a small dagger on her thigh, tucked under her thick, winter skirts that fell just below her knees. Riding boots and tight trousers kept her legs warm beneath. Finally, Needle was tucked through a belt cinched tightly around her small waist, keeping her leather vest and tunic close to her body to conserve heat. 

 

Jon was already at the table when she arrived in the upper kitchens. She could tell by his hunched body language and bouncing knee he was a bit nervous, as was she, though Arya was able to remain calm on the surface as she walked up to the table, sitting across from him on a stool with one uneven leg that wobbled as she sat herself on it. 

“You drink wine now?” Jon raised a surprised and skeptical eyebrow at his youngest sister as she picked up a pitcher and began pouring wine into her glass. 

Arya only shrugged slightly, taking a quick sip before she answered. “I’d prefer something a bit more refreshing than alcohol, but I don’t plan on asking the servants to melt clean snow for me to drink.” A hint of a tease seeped in her tone. In complete honesty, Arya still didn’t have a taste for alcohol. She thought it all tasted unpleasantly sharp and sour, like vinegar. She also hated the effect it had on her small body – the feeling of a cloudy head made her on edge; she never liked the feeling of not being in control and drinking wine was an easy way to get in that state. Why people drank themselves sick and to a complete lack of control and, in some cases, lost memory was beyond her comprehension. 

Her bastard brother smiled softly, nodding his head. “That’s fair.” A long pause followed before he continued. “We’ve all certainly changed since the last time we were back home. I keep wanting to treat you as I always have – protecting you – but I can see you don’t need that anymore.” He chuckled under his breath, “Reckon you’ve never really needed protection.” 

A smile formed on Arya’s lips. Small, but it was certainly there. “No, I haven’t,” She took a moment to formulate how she was going to finish her reply. “Though it was nice to have someone close by who you could trust to be there for you without hesitation. It’s a rare relationship to have now.” 

“I can toast to that.” They clanked their metal goblets softly, each taking a sip. “Where have you been, after all this time? Must I worry about enemies to the East and not just the North and South?”

“Any enemies you might worry about because of what I’ve done don’t have the ability to get past me,” Arya replied with soft confidence. The memory of Walder Frey’s blood rushing hot over her hand as she slit his throat made her heart beat a bit faster. How was she to tell Jon what she did – who she has become – without him fearing her, or locking her up because he thought she was only a heartless killer. “I tried to go north, to the Wall,” She said quickly before Jon could reply. “After father died, Yoren from the Night’s Watch helped mask me as a boy to take me to you. He thought it was the safest place for me to go.”

Jon sat up a bit straighter as he took in this new information. “But you never made it to the Wall, did you?” 

“No,” Arya replied, pursing her lips softly. She considered what she would tell him. Bits and pieces at a time, she decided. Of course she trusted him, but it was herself that she was weary about. If she opened the flood gates, if she told him everything tonight, Arya was afraid that she would become vulnerable again. She wasn’t an open person – Jon knew that. He would understand why she kept things from him for just a little while longer. Gave him information slowly. Filled in the blanks. “Gold coats came looking for Robert’s bastard children and Yoren didn’t want to risk one of them seeing me, so I fled with a few recruits to continue north.” The travels with Gendry, Hot Pie, dealings with the Hound and the Brotherhood Without Banners flooded her mind. “But, of course, life isn’t as easy as having one complication.” 

A soft laugh huffed through Jon’s nose. “No,” he agreed, shaking his head, “It never is.”

He opened his mouth to ask another question but Arya continued, knowing already what his next inquiry was about. “After things fell apart I traveled to Braavos for a while, figuring it was safest to not be in Westeros if I was alone. I had heard about the attacks against the rest of our family and had assumed I was one of the last, of there was anyone else, left.” 

Jon watched her for a moment, sizing her up. Trying to understand what she had gone through, what she had done, who she had become. “I can’t blame you for that.” He leaned back slightly, relaxing. “That explains where your fighting technique came from.” 

So he did notice. Arya smirked. “Every fighter in Westeros is taught to fight with brute strength and dominating your opponent. Clearly that method wouldn’t have worked as well for me.” 

“Clearly.” Jon repeated, a laugh playing on his lips. “I may not know a lot, but I do know your story doesn’t have much depth or explanation.” He raised a hand against her open mouth, ready to explain or defend. “But I understand, Arya. I do. There are things I can’t possibly share over dinner or so quickly. What I want you to know,” Jon began, leaning forward on the table just slightly, “Is that I will be here for you when you’re ready. I want to know everything, if you are willing to tell me. I knew you so well when you were just a young girl, and I want to know the warrior who sits before me just as well.” 

The sincerity and love behind his statement made Arya’s chest tighten. Was it guilt she felt? Admiration, love, respect? It was impossible to ignore the six years they have had apart – every single Stark child was a different person, now. Were the ghosts of their child personas haunting the halls of Winterfell? Holding them back? Should they let those memories go and mold into completely new people, or should they grasp at air – hold on to a person that did, yet didn’t, exist anymore? 

Arya could see the Jon she grew up with in his dark brown eyes. The love, respect, honor, and trust still held strong within him. But he was different, too. Stronger. Harder. Molded by experiences Arya could not imagine, nor he for her. She knew it would take time to create a relationship between the two of them. It wasn’t due to a loss of respect or love, no. It was due to these new strangers that sat in front of each other. There was so much the two had to learn about the other and the only solution would be time. 

“Braavos, white walkers, battles between bastards,” Arya murmured, “There’s so much we’ve all seen. So much we’ve done without the other. But our pack is strong. What remains of it, at least.” Jon nodded solemnly. “I will be here for you as well, Jon. In due time we will learn more about the other – hear about each other’s stories in more depth. And I look forward to that.” 

The two dark-haired siblings sat for a bit longer, discussing politics, strategies, white walkers, reminiscing over memories that weren’t too painful to revisit. After a while, the candles grew low and the pitcher of wine was gone along with the food on their plates. The two hugged for a long moment, taking in the moment. Both of them finally realizing that the other was real – they were reunited again after all this time. They parted ways near midnight, not saying much. Their actions, their body language, saying enough for the two of them as they went to their respective destinations. 

 

 

“I had figured you had decided to come tomorrow when another smith was available.” Gendry remarked as Arya slipped through the front door of the smithy. Cold wind blasted through the door, making him shiver next to the roaring fire. 

Arya arched an eye brow at him, stalking forward slowly, examining the work he had accomplished while she was gone. “Why? Do you think I’m afraid of you?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm and her eyes danced with a challenge. 

Gendry shook his head, chuckling. “I’m not sure I believe you’re afraid of anything.” Was his only reply. 

Good answer, Arya thought to herself. 

The building was extremely hot, inside. With weapons cooling against the wall and the burning fire warming the room, it was nearly melting hot. Casually, Arya unclipped her thick coat, tossing it on a stool near her. 

“Shall we get this over with? It’s quite late and I have an early morning of training.” She tried to look bored. In reality, despite the cold, her skin was covered in gooseflesh and her heart raced. Arya was nervous around him. She still didn’t know what to make of him nor had she decided if she was still pissed off at him for what he did a few years ago.   
Gendry raised his eyebrows slightly, nodding his head. “Training for what? To fight?” He asked as he gathered a few tools. 

Arya walked over to his work station. A small table was the only thing separating the two. Different grips sat on top, along with a piece of parchment to write down notes and sizes. “Why else would someone train?” She replied easily, lifting her chin as a challenge. 

“Grab the smallest grip,” Gendry said quietly as he fumbled with a few tools in his apron. “Are you planning on throwing yourself on the front lines or something?” He demanded softly, watching her as she picked up the tool, wrapping her hand around it to examine the length of her hand. Gendry grabbed her wrist gently, moving her fingers slightly to see how large the gaps were from the tips of her fingers to her palm. 

The skin that Gendry touched felt uncomfortably hot against her skin. Arya blamed the heat of the smithy for the reaction. “Aren’t you?” She nodded her head towards the dragon glass hammer hanging on the wall. 

He looked up at her, glancing for a moment at the weapon he had made for himself. “Does it matter?” He replied quickly. He let go of her wrist, then, writing down a few notes messily on the parchment. “You may be the most interesting and hardest customer I’ve had.” He mused with a short laugh. 

Arya became a bit defensive. “Excuse me? And why is that?” 

The next measurements required Gendry take note of the length of her arm and her height, so he stepped around the small table and took ahold of her left wrist again, extending out to her side. He needed no measuring stick. Just a comparison of her arm to his. “I’ve never created weapons for such a small person before.” Before Arya had the chance to make contact between his legs with her knee, Gendry caught her leg in his hand, his grip tight around the side of her knee. “It’s not my fault you’re so small.” He countered, letting her leg go after a moment. Gendry’s hand was still wrapped around her wrist, though it was between the two of them, Arya having moved her arm while she balanced for the attack. “No need to take it out on me.” 

“Piss off,” Arya growled, her eye brows furrowing in irritation. She moved to yank her wrist out of his grip but he kept a tight hold on it. 

As he extended her arm out again, he shook his head. “I wasn’t able to get the measurement what with you trying to kick me in a very un-Ladylike way.” 

“Call me a Lady again and the only thing you’ll be counting are the bones I break in your body.” She warned. 

Gendry let go of her, leaning over to write down the rest of her measurements. “Last I counted, I’ve had you down two for two.” He replied easily. 

He had expected her to attack, but Arya moved so quickly and so low, he wasn’t able to stop her as she swung and kicked the back of his knee, falling to the ground. He rolled over as soon as he hit the dirt floor of the smithy, laughing at how predictable her anger was to him. Of course, he knew his laugh would only piss her off more and anticipated as she bent down to grab the front of his thin tunic. Before she had the chance to make contact with his jaw and her fist, he grabbed her ankle, throwing her off balance. 

Arya fell to the floor next to him, giving Gendry a chance to sit up and grab her small frame. She kicked out in response, hitting his thigh hard enough to trigger a muscle cramp. He grunted in response, trying to grab for her as she moved to straddle his stomach. Arya grabbed for the dagger latched onto her thigh and held it against his throat. She leaned down close, their breath mingling from the short fight. “If you wanted to spar, you should have just told me. I wouldn’t mind kicking your ass a few times to remind you who I am.” 

A roll of his eyes was his only response before he shoved his body to the side, grabbing the wrist that held the weapon to his throat as he moved. Gendry now straddled her, his legs tangled with hers to keep her from kicking him in places he was quite fond of. He struggled to grab her weapon, taking her forearm in his large hand as he pinched the dagger out of her grip. “You may be quick, but you can’t possibly think you are stronger than I am.” He challenged, leaning over her as her wrists were pinned above her head. 

“In a proper fight you wouldn’t stand a chance.” Which was true. Unconventional wrestling wouldn’t help Arya. She was strong, but not nearly as large or full of brute strength like Gendry was. He was strong and slow. Arya was weaker than him by much faster and a more experienced fighter. However, little did she know he had spent those few years in Flea Bottom training for a fight. 

Gendry was no longer the clumsy, unexperienced fighter Arya knew. 

Arya was no longer the weak, all bark with little bite opponent he knew. 

“Be that as it may, I still won tonight.” Gendry replied with a satisfied smirk. 

“Go ahead and underestimate me,” She bit back. “You’ll soon realize I’m not the small girl you knew me to be.” 

Something flashed in Gendry’s eyes that Arya couldn’t quite put her finger on. “You never were,” Was all he replied. A moment later he was no longer holding her down. He stood quickly and gracefully, offering out a hand to help her. Arya considered not taking it for a moment. But she huffed and grabbed it after a short pause. 

As Arya brushed the dirt off her leather vest and thick skirts, she asked, “Is there anything else you need?”

Gendry paused, considering something. Arya was a bit surprised – she knew he had all the measurements he needed to create the weapons she requested and had only asked out of curtesy. “Your forgiveness.” He finally replied. 

It was easy to see she was caught off guard at that. Her stiff stature softened slightly. “You have it, Gendry.” How could he be so stupid to think she hated him after all this time? Of course, she was still hurt by his choice, but her experienced taught her that life is too fragile to waste a relationship such as the one she had with Gendry. She walked up to him, craning her neck to look at him hard in the eyes. “Just don’t ever do it again.” 

Before he had the chance to say or do anything, she turned on her heels, grabbing her coat. As she fastened the button at her throat, Arya turned towards him. “When can I expect the weapons to be made?” 

“Come back in two days to make sure I have the weight and grip correct.” Gendry replied. 

Arya nodded her head before turning on her heels and exiting the smithy. She leaned against the cold brick on the outside, sighing as she closed her eyes. Her skin burned. Her heart raced. The feeling of his hard muscles under her as she straddled him had distracted her in a way she felt uneasy about. Arya needed a clear head. No distractions. No man was going to throw her off. 

Pushing off the wall, she stalked to her bed chambers, thoughts of daggers, tangled limbs, and ice blue eyes taunting her clouded mind.


End file.
